.
Robert read Murray's letter again.
My Lord,
It appears that, following the failure of his wedding to Lady Edith, Sir Anthony Strallan left Locksley and went to the continent indefinitely. I have sent letters to the last three hotels where it is known he stayed, as well as to his estate manager and his solicitor. If I receive a response, I will inform you immediately.
I remain, etc.
George Murray
At least the Crawleys would have a little time to get used to the idea thought Robert. In the meantime, he would really have to try to get used to the new methods that Matthew had instigated on the estate, and which Tom was pursuing with an evangelical vigour. It was bringing Robert and Tom to loggerheads on an almost daily basis, but this time Robert really did think that things were going too far too fast. The tenants themselves were beginning to bring their discomfort to Robert's attention.
On top of all that, Mary was letting her grief sour her relations with everyone around her, even Carson. Robert didn't know what to do to help her. She pushed the old butler away as vigorously as she did anyone, and that just wasn't like her.
.
Edith sat in her bedroom, looking at the engagement photograph that had been taken of her and Anthony so many months ago. She looked so happy, they were so close, and he was so handsome, although there was a sadness playing on his features even then, something akin to unworthiness. He had thought he didn't deserve her, but it hadn't always been so. Before the War - before his confidence had been crushed by injury and prejudice - things had been different between them. Even now, she didn't actually know how he had come to be wounded. He didn't talk about his experiences in France, shrugging them off with a wave of his left hand and a 'the same as everyone else, really' response to any queries. She had loved him so much, and known him so little. They had been engaged only a month and had not bared their souls to each other at all; they were both too hurt and shy for that. It had made Anthony's insecurities easy for him to hide; it had made it easy for them to overwhelm him. She wondered where he was. Would she ever see him again? If Murray couldn't find him...
.
Half a continent away, Sir Anthony Strallan was looking at another copy of the same photograph, battered and curling at the edges from where it lived in his inside pocket of whatever jacket he happened to be wearing. He had hoped that a version of the Grand Tour might help to ease the pain, and provide distractions. Well, at least there had been distractions, but of a very plain, boring type: art galleries, concerts and opera, libraries, visiting the British Ambassadors in Paris, Madrid, Lisbon, and now Rome. He had even been on the receiving end of a flirtation with a Dowager Comtesse in Cannes, despite all of his polite, but ever increasingly forceful, refusals. Despite the distractions, the pain remained.
But he knew that if Catherine the Great, or even Helen of Troy, had set her cap at him, he would not have been able to respond to her. His chest was empty; his heart lived with Edith wherever she was. He was not capable of feeling love for any other woman.
The newspapers were vague about her relationship with the Editor of The Sketch, Michael Gregson, calling her his 'constant companion' whatever that meant, although he feared he knew. He just wished they would announce their engagement and follow it quickly with a wedding then he would know he had lived through the worst. Staying in Italy was getting uncomfortable; he was reminded at every turn why he wanted to bring Edith here on honeymoon. He might even return to Locksley. He missed the English countryside and his own estate particularly. He kept recalling Browning. At least Browning was exiled to Italy because he had eloped with the love of his life. Anthony looked around at the hotel coffee room and realised he hadn't spoken to anyone other than his valet or a waiter for the best part of a week. Perhaps it was time to move on again, but where to go? France had been a mistake – there were too many reminders of the recent conflict, too much destruction and heartbreak still evident. Germany was out of the question for the same reason. Although he had loved the country and its culture before the War, he had heard terrible reports of what was going on there now, and his arm ached with just the thought of going back to Vienna. Africa? Egypt perhaps? Interesting things were going on there. Carnarvon was funding expeditions all over the place and remarkable finds were depicted in the papers. Or America? Or India?
Suddenly he wasn't keen on going anywhere anymore. He put off the decision for another day.
.
The next day the letter from Murray arrived, forwarded from several other establishments where he'd stayed around Italy. Anthony was stunned.
He was well aware of his family history, but had not appreciated that all other, nearer claimants for the Earldom of Grantham were deceased. The possibility that he might become the heir apparent had never occurred to him. He had somehow missed the death of Matthew and Mary's son, although he had seen the newspaper reports of Matthew's accident, and he thought of them all: all the Crawley family, in that brooding monster of a house, dealing with their misfortune and grief.
Most of all he thought of Edith. Was anyone looking after her? He didn't suppose so. She had lost the sister she was closest to, and now had lost her most powerful ally in the house; the last person she could call a friend. She had Gregson though, and although his heart stung at the thought that it wasn't him there to comfort her, he was glad she wasn't alone.
It took a full day of thinking before he made his decision. He would return to Yorkshire. He would face up to meeting Robert, and if that meant meeting Edith again…his breath stalled at the thought in equal agony and ecstasy. Oh, Edith!